


Idée Fixe

by vintagelilacs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-20 00:50:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16545629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintagelilacs/pseuds/vintagelilacs
Summary: “John, you must understand. I have a very obsessive personality.” Sherlock licked his lips. “Eating, drinking, sleeping, even breathing are all secondary to The Work. And now… they’re all secondary to you."Sherlock has a journal where he writes about John. Naturally John discovers it.





	Idée Fixe

With heavy footfalls heralding his arrival, John trudged up the steps to his flat. All _seventeen_ of them. He was painstakingly aware of the number of steps ever since a certain consulting (read: obnoxious) detective had once used the number of stairs and John’s nescience of them as proof of his inability to both see _and_ observe.

But while John may not be hyper-attuned to the finer details, he was still a doctor, as he was constantly reminding Sherlock. He could hardly be written-off as one of the average dimwits starring in Sherlock’s many rants about the uselessness of the human race. Though going into the field of medicine had certainly proved an unfortunate career decision today.

John’s shift had mostly consisted of prescribing antibiotics for strep throat and tonsillitis, or sending patients with minor cases of the sniffles home, but his last patient of the day had decided to up the ante by projecting vomit all over him.

He’d done a cursory rinse before departing from work, but the repulsed stares he’d garnered on the tube were evidence he hadn’t done a successful job. All he wanted now was a hot shower and a quiet evening in front of the telly. 

After ascending the final stair, it came to John's attention that the door to the flat was not only unlocked, but ajar. He sighed inwardly. He’d have to have another talk with Sherlock about burglars. The detective was adept at catching them, but when he was in his mind-palace, he was dead to the world. A common crook could probably waltz out with Sherlock’s prized microscope and he’d be none the wiser until significantly later. 

John flung his jacket over the vacant hook. The floorboards to his left creaked. “Sherlock,” he acknowledged automatically. He looked up when no answer came. It was decidedly not Sherlock in front of him. 

John distantly thought how glad he was that he hadn’t immediately stripped out of his ruined shirt upon entering the flat. He was fine changing in front of Sherlock—why wouldn’t he be? They were flatmates, after all—but he wasn’t too fond performing a stripshow in front of Scotland Yard’s finest. 

“I’m sorry, what’s going on?” John asked, which in British translated roughly to: _what the fuck do you think you’re doing?_

Lestrade had the decency to look embarrassed. His eyes flickered to the side as he mumbled, “Drugs bust.”

“Drugs bust? Greg, what the hell?”

“Look, Sherlock’s brother ordered it. I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?” 

John’s mind stuttered between disbelief and outrage, when the sound of snickering flared up. Donovan and Anderson emerged from the main floor bedroom, tittering over a book. 

“Why are they here?” John asked tiredly, though he already knew. 

“They volunteered.” 

Figured. Drugs busts at 221B usually consisted of everyone at the Met who Sherlock had made feel like a tit, all of them hoping to get one over on the insufferable detective. 

”And it’s not technically an official drugs bust. We’d have to fill out paperwork for that. This is just a favour for Mycroft.”

“You’re invading Sherlock’s—and mine, I might add—privacy for a sodding favour?” his voice carried louder than he intended. Greg looked suitably chastised, and even Anderson flinched, before his eyes darted between John and the book tightly clasped in his hands. On second glance, John realized it didn’t look like a regular novel, so much as a journal. 

“Hang on. What is that?” 

Donovan crossed her arms over her chest. “Seems the freak keeps a diary. He writes an awful lot about you. I’d be concerned if it were me.” 

_Yeah, well it’s not you,_ John thought venomously. 

“Not too late to leave the country,” Anderson suggested helpfully. “Though with how obsessed he is with you he’d probably hunt you down.”

“Give me that,” John ordered, his voice dropping into the authoritative timbre he’d frequently exercised as Captain Watson. Anderson relinquished it easily, but his face fell when John merely set the book aside. 

“You’re not going to read it?” 

He glared. “No. And unless you suspect Sherlock keeps cocaine inside it, you shouldn’t have either.”

Donovan spoke up, not at all cowed by the ferocity of John’s expression. “I warned you solving murders wouldn’t be enough for him. He practically admits to wanting to dress himself up in your skin.” 

After the atrocities he’d witnessed in Afghanistan and the gruesome murders he’d investigated alongside Sherlock, the imagery was hardly enough to disturb him. “Somehow I think I’ll survive.”

She folded her arms across her chest, her body language both defensive and self-assured at once. “Watch your back Watson, or yours will be the next body we’re examining.” 

“Alright, that’s enough outta you lot!” Greg interrupted. “If you’ve finished sweeping his bedroom we’re all done here.” 

“Any sign of cocaine?” John asked.

“Luckily no. Not this time.”

“So this was all for nothing, then,” he commented wryly.

“Look, his brother’s observed some, er, signs that Sherlock might be using again. It’s hard to tell with him, though. Not exactly an open book, is he?” Greg’s expression was pleading, but John didn’t relent. If Sherlock was really acting suspicious, John liked to think he would’ve been the first to know. And he hadn’t witnessed any alarming behaviour. Sherlock’s moods were volatile and capricious even at the best of times. He supposed Sherlock had been more pensive lately, frequently lapsing into long periods of silence, but that was hardly a sign he was falling into bad habits. The only real cause for alarm was when he was so bored and indifferent that even locked-room mysteries didn’t pique his interest, and thankfully that hadn’t been the case for quite some time. 

“How ‘bout you leave looking after him to me?” 

“John, I was just—” 

“I know,” he cut him off. “I get it, I do. Next time Mycroft goes to you, I’d appreciate a heads up.” 

Greg hesitated, before dipping his head in a nod and exiting the flat. 

A heavy sigh rattled out of John's nostrils as he surveyed the flat. To his untrained eyes, there was no lingering proof of the drugs bust, but he knew Sherlock would be able to detect a change in the dust patterns, if nothing else. John plucked the journal back up and plodded towards Sherlock’s room. 

Books, papers, and other odd curios were scattered in a helter-skelter manner throughout his room, but he wasn’t sure if it had been like that before or after Anderson and Donovan’s intervention. He scanned the bookshelves for an empty space to slot the journal into, but there weren’t any vacancies. Sherlock’s desk was piled high with all sorts of rubbish, and if he placed the journal there, it looked liable to topple over. 

Where would Sherlock keep his journal? It couldn’t have been hidden very well if Anderson and Donovan had been able to locate it. John dithered over where to place it. He may as well just dump it on Sherlock’s bed and be done with it. No matter where he put it, Sherlock was bound to eventually find out Donovan and Anderson had read it. Though he might not even care all that much. If it was truly meant to be private, surely someone as brilliant as Sherlock would’ve hidden it better? And if he didn’t care if they read it, he probably wouldn’t care if John did either. 

John stroked a thumb over the cracked leather of the binding. The journal was weathered, the binding frayed, and it smelled faintly of tea. It was either very old, or simply very well-used. 

What would the contents be like? He could hardly picture Sherlock starting each entry with _dear diary_. Even keeping a journal at all seemed unlike him. It bordered too close to sentiment. 

John normally didn’t even consider rifling through Sherlock’s things--partly because a high quantity of his personal possessions were toxic or in the process of decaying--but Donovan and Anderson had made it clear the journal was about him, and that the material was alarming. He hoped they were exaggerating, but he also knew how Sherlock sometimes got. He frequently made comments or observations that were more than a bit not good, but he’d never said anything along the lines of wanting to wear John’s skin before. 

If the contents were about him, didn’t he have a right to know? And if not, it wasn’t like Sherlock ever respected _his_ boundaries. Just last week the detective had mocked some of the old poetry saved on John’s computer that he had written for past girlfriends. 

If Sherlock could go through his things, he didn’t see why the opposite shouldn’t be true. Turnabout is fair play, after all.

Ignoring the timorous protests of his conscience, John cracked the journal open to a random dog-eared page. 

> 1.69 metres. Approx eleven stone. Gained four pounds since introduced to Mrs. Hudson’s baking. Left-handed. Intermittent hand tremor. Psychosomatic limp. Frequent night terrors, but soothed by violin (suggested: Paganini or Bach). Mild chelitis simplex from constant lip-licking; note deep fissures in lower lip. Intelligent, but lacks insight. Army doctor. Adrenaline addict. Enjoys dominating partners. ~~Heterosexual.~~ Repressed bisexual? Need more data.  
>  Prefers tea with milk, no sugar. Played on Blackheath Rugby team. Learned clarinet in school. Proficient with firearms. _John._ Most common given name for males in the 1900s. Unmemorable name and face.

Huh. Well, that wasn’t especially flattering. He continued reading. Further down on the page was the word _‘Why?’_ heavily underlined several times. Why what, exactly, he didn’t know. 

He flipped to the next page. 

> My life can be divided into two distinct eras: before you, and after you. I want to memorize the taste and texture of your skin, to absorb every atom of your being and combine it with my own. I crave you with every molecule of my body. I can absorb your chemical effects through touch alone, but my preferred method is breathing you, filling my lungs with the fougère basenotes of cologne and lingering traces of gun oil. 

John's throat tightened to the point of pain. His name wasn't mentioned anywhere on this page, but from the mention of gun oil, he suspected it was about him. His intermittent hand tremor seemed to come back full-force as he rifled through the book. A number of entries were written in foreign languages, and he skipped over those entirely. 

>   
>  The human body has thousands of species of symbiotic microbes inside them, but I can think of no symbiotic relationship more powerful than the one we share. Are there any other two people on this earth more suited for one another than we are? I renew your sense of purpose, I provide you meaning and excitement. I temper your suicidal urges and calm your night terrors. I make you laugh. Through my own self-neglect, I allow you to fulfill your caretaker tendencies. I even indulge your awful taste in telly. And in return? You soothe the disquiet in my mind. You save me from boredom. You've given me _everything_. 

John would have to be blind not to see the connection. Every page he'd read so far was about him, but none of it made sense. It was as if the journal had come from an alternate universe and an alternate Sherlock. The detective he knew abhorred sentiment and emotion, and yet, all of his feelings were laid bare on these pages, often in heartfelt prose. It certainly put the poetry John wrote to shame. He shook his head. Only Sherlock would have a knack for a skill he belittled. 

The trembling in John's hands spread throughout the rest of his body, forcing him to sink onto the edge of Sherlock's bed for support. He took a moment to compose himself, before reading on. 

> You are encoded in my DNA. A drug more potent than cocaine. My body depends on you simply to survive. 

Alright. This had to be an elaborate prank. How Sherlock managed to enlist Donovan and Anderson's help, John wasn't sure, but there was no way Sherlock viewed him like this. Oh, sure, there were certain qualities of his that Sherlock valued. John was straightforward, generous with his praise, and regularly brought Sherlock tea when he demanded it, but it seemed impossible that the depth of Sherlock's regard for him would run so deep. 

But assuming it was a prank, what would Sherlock have to gain from it? No, he didn't do pranks. _Experiment._ That was the word. He'd probably conceived the experiment as a means of analyzing John's reactions for... some sort of odd purpose. He wasn't sure what, but he didn't pretend to understand most of the things his mad flatmate did. 

The slam of the front door rattled him out of his reverie. Before he could even think of stashing the journal somewhere and fleeing from the bedroom in time, Sherlock appeared in the doorway. 

Their eyes locked. Averting his felt like thwarting the pull between two powerful magnets of opposing charge. It was in that moment that John _knew_. There was no triumphant or curious gleam in Sherlock's eyes. His lips were slack, and for a split-second, a lighting flash of raw emotion flickered over his face. The feelings and thoughts he'd written in the journal weren't contrived. It seemed improbable, but, in hindsight, not impossible. And once you've eliminated the impossible...

“Sherlock.” John's voice came out as little more than a croak. He didn't have any defense or explanation to fall back on. 

His flatmate’s face was blank; completely devoid of emotion. Definitely not a good sign. John prepared himself for words of reproach, but there was no anger or recrimination in Sherlock’s tone. Instead his voice was oddly flat. 

“I imagine you’ll want to pack your things.”

“What?” 

“Have the synapses in your brain been dormant very long?” he snapped. “We both know very well you’re not going to stay.”

"Why not?” His mind felt muddled. Was Sherlock kicking him out? After all they’d been through, did it really take a bit of privacy invasion to fracture their admittedly unconventional friendship? 

“Knowing what you do now, do you really think you’d be comfortable sharing a flat with me?” 

”Sherlock, I don’t even understand what this is.” The journal felt heavy and awkward in his hands. He had to ask. He had to be sure. “I know I shouldn’t have read it without your permission, but can you explain this to me? The things you wrote—did you,” he inhaled sharply. “Did you mean them?” 

The rigid mask of indifference splintered, revealing another precious glimmer of vulnerability. “John, you must understand. I have a very obsessive personality.” Sherlock licked his lips. “Eating, drinking, sleeping, even breathing are all secondary to The Work. And now… they’re all secondary to you. I can’t possibly elaborate more than I already have in that book. The short of it is that I want you in every way capable of wanting another person. I want to know every part of you." 

"You already know me," John argued softly. 

"Not enough. Still not enough data. I want to know what your lips feel like against my own. What it's like to have your undivided attention on my body. To be inside you, to have you inside me. I've tried, but I can't deduce what you'd be like. How you'd feel. What you'd do first. But I want to. I want you.” 

John's brain crashed to a halt. That was... he... _Confession,_ his brain supplied. That was a confession. Of the romantic variety. John blinked stupidly at Sherlock. Where most people in Sherlock's situation would likely fidget or rely on deflective humour, the detective merely chuckled.

"You see now, don't you? I don't do things by halves. I am quite literally obsessed with you. Do let me know if you require assistance packing your things." 

Sherlock turned to go, but John's hand lashed out, gripping him to the point of pain. "No." 

"No?" he repeated sharply. "No what?" 

John sucked in air, trying to ease the pressure in his chest. "It's a lot to take in, I'll give you that, but if you don't think your feelings are mutual, then you're clearly not as good of a detective as you thought." 

"John, you're misunderstanding—" 

"I'm not. I feel the same. About you." He licked his lips. "I'm so totally gone on you, Sherlock." From the very first moment, he knew there would never be anyone else quite like Sherlock. 

Sherlock gently pried John's hand off his arm. "Misattribution of arousal. My writings unnerved you, and you mistakenly believe you are attracted to me." 

"None of what you wrote unnerved me," he said firmly. "It was quite flattering actually." He would be lying if he said he wasn't pleased to be the focus of such a brilliant and gifted mind. 

"Ah." Sherlock nodded. "Reciprocal liking isn't an uncommon psychological phenomenon either." 

A disbelieved snort escaped him. "You seriously believe I only like you because you liked me first? No. No, I've been attracted to you since the moment we met at Bart's and you deduced me, and I fell in love with you some indeterminable point along the way." 

Sherlock had a lost look in his eyes, like a child discovering Father Christmas was fictitious. "I don't understand," he admitted. John had never heard his voice go so soft and uncertain. 

"Now you know how the rest of us feel," he joked. 

The glazed look of confusion faded from Sherlock's silvery-green eyes, and they sharpened to their usual razor focus. "You're not lying," he murmured. "Your face, there's no artistry or deception. You actually mean it." 

"Of course I do." 

John's confession didn't placate Sherlock. A furrow appeared between his brows, and every line of his glorious body drew tense. "I don't know what to do. John, you'll have to show me how to proceed because I've never done this before."

"Hey," John set his hand on Sherlock's cheek. "It's just you and me, like it always is. We'll figure this out together. Okay?"

Sherlock nodded stiffly. 

"Okay," John repeated. There was a fizziness in his chest, and he felt, strangely, like giggling. "Alright." 

"John, you are aware you're repeating yourself?" 

"Am I?" 

Sherlock made a rumble of confirmation. "It's getting annoying." 

"S'pose you'll just have to shut me up then." 

"By... kissing you?" Sherlock scanned his face for approval. "That's what you mean, correct?"

He shrugged. "Unless you have any other methods." 

"Duct tape's never failed me before." 

"Git." John elbowed him. “Now, I don’t mean to kill the mood here, but I’m in dire need of a shower because—”

“One of your patients ejected their gastric contents on you.” 

"I was going to say puked, but yeah.”

"Will you,” Sherlock paused, as if greatly weighing his next words, “be showering alone?”

John grinned. “You’re more than welcome to join me.”

**Author's Note:**

> as always, comments and kudos are immensely appreciated <3


End file.
